“Seriously,I don’t want you to get cold on my behalf,” I continued to protest, shaking myhead profusely. Afraid that if I wore his jacket, I’d never want to take itoff.
Butdespite my insistence that I was okay, I felt the weight of the heavy jacketbeing laid comfortably over my shoulders, and it was like stepping into theembrace of a warm kitchen on a cold winter's day. I settled in with a sigh,relishing for a moment in the mingled scents of musky cologne and leather,while I also promised that, since being pregnant, I got hot quickly andtherefore wouldn't need it for long. But Goose brushed it off, telling me tokeep itas long asI needed it, and I wondered howhe'd feel if I needed it forever.
SleepyHollow Cemetery was a gorgeous museum of exquisite stonework, art, and coloredhistory. Our tour guide, an older woman named Doris, was just as funny as shewas informative, and by the time we circled back to the gate, I was alreadythinking about when I'd be able to come back.
Itwas then that I was hit with the realization that, not long from now, I wasgoing to be limited in what I could and couldn't do. Not just during pregnancybut after the baby was born, too. As much as I wanted to come back and checkout the headstones of authors and killers alike, would I be able to, when I wasknee-deep in diapers and baby bottles? And even after the baby was older, whatif he or she didn’t like this kind of thing? What if cemeteries and history wasboring to my child, and I was stuck in a purgatory of animated movies and playdates?
Myinsides twisted at the thought, and I found it funny that I had been so sureabout having the baby, while also still being so uncertain of how I'd handlelife as a mother.
“Youokay?” Goose asked on the way to our respective cars.
“Oh,yeah, I’m swell. Just thinking about how my life isgonnaend once I get this kid out of me.”
Helaughed, nodding. “Yeah, itkindawill for a while.And you don't get to do the same things you used to do as often. But you alsoget to do the really fun stuff you couldn't do before without looking like aweirdo.”
Isnorted. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Like,”he drawled, shrugging, “Sesame Place. Or those hands-on children's museums.”
Hummingthoughtfully, I nodded. “I do love a good hands-on museum. And I haven’t beento Sesame Place sinceIwas a toddler.”
“See?Having a kid is the best thing that ever happened to me. She put things intoperspective and really made my life better.”
“Well,I hope I can someday say the same for myself,” I muttered, searching for atwinge of hope as my stomach continued to twist with trepidation.
“Youwill,” he replied, and it sounded like a promise.
Wereached my little red sedan in the parking lot, and I said, “This is me.”
Itwas meant to be the moment in which we parted with a vow that we would see eachother soon, and yet, I didn't climb in and he didn't walk away. The night hungimbalanced on the uncertainty of this second, not knowing where exactly it wouldfall, until Goose looked up to the starry sky and shrugged his broad shoulders.
“So,youwannagrabsomethin’ toeat?”
“Yeah,”I said with a smile and a sigh of relief. “I do.”
***
Horsefeatherswas an old, historic pub and restaurant with dark woodwork and cool memorabiliaeverywhere you looked. Just a walk to and from the women's room was aninteresting journey, full of pictures and encased knickknacks, and when Ireturned to our booth, Goose laughed and asked if I'd gotten lost.
“Sorry,”I said, sliding onto the bench seat. “I was checking out this old typewriternear the bathroom.”
Henodded, never taking his eyes off me, even though the menu was open in hishands. “How long have you been writing?”
Layinga napkin over my lap, I replied, “Since I could hold a pencil.”
“So,you've always known that's what you wanted to do?”
“Prettymuch.” Then, I rolled my eyes, as I pulled a pack of Saltines from my bag, andadded, “Well, okay, I went through a rebellious phase when I was a teen andrefused to write anything. But otherwise, it's all I've ever wanted to do.”
Hiseyes lit with stifled jubilation. “Wow. Your parents must've had their handsfull with you.”
“Hey!”I smirked, throwing a cracker at him from across the table. “You don't get it.Since I was a little kid, I was told by everyone that I would grow up to be awriter. I felt pressured into it, and not just by everybody else, but myself,too. I felt like Ineededto write, like it was no different than eatingor breathing, and it drove me crazy that I didn't have a choice in the matter.”
Onceupon a time, I had explained my insatiable craving for the written word toBrendan. He had snickered and brushed it away with a pat on the knee like I wasnothing more than a rambling little girl. That had been the cornerstone in hisfeelings toward what I do with my life, and it was also why I never spoke tohim much about it. Now, I waited for a similar reaction from Goose, bracingmyself for that feeling of being small and stupid.
Buthe never snickered or rolled his eyes. Instead, he nodded and folded his armson the table.
“Idon't have a passion like that,” he explained. “But I get it, the constantdrive to do something. Like your life depends on it.”
